


Sacrifices We've Made

by Laura_McEwan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:22:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_McEwan/pseuds/Laura_McEwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, John is alone. Then mysterious letters begin to arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifices We've Made

_Brother of mine_  
 _will you wait by the gates_  
 _we'll be together again_  
 _and the silence will break_

_I will be there_  
 _right beside you again_  
 _my broken heart will not mend_  
 _I will find you my friend_

_Into the light_  
 _from the darkness I go_  
 _you will be waiting for me_  
 _at least that much I know_

_Lord do you see_  
 _sacrifices we've made_  
 _Jerome and Irving_  
 _we must be together again_  
 _Before you know it we will be together again._

**_~The Self-Help Group – “Jerome and Irving”_ **

 *~*~*

“I can’t go back to Baker Street. Not yet.”

So he told Mrs. Hudson at the cemetery as she clutched his arm, staring at the glossy black stone with Sherlock’s name carved into it.  He remembered wondering faintly how the stone was put up so quickly. When his parents had died, it took months for their cheap stones to be produced and set in the graveyard.

Mycroft, likely. _Obviously._

“Don’t…be…dead. Would you do that, just for me?”

At night, those words repeated in his head as he lay staring at the ceiling from Lestrade’s sofa.

 _Dontbedead_ _…dontbedead…dontbedead_

When the oblivion of sleep finally overtook him, his dreams were grey. Grey rain, grey skies, the wild fluttering of a long black coat and the empty grey stare after the fall, until the dream washed with red and more red, a crimson drape covering him, suffocating him.

And he woke. Gasping, with ghost pain in his leg and real pain in his shoulder, Greg’s firm hands lifting him up to breathe, holding him as he cried.

Every night.

Two weeks later, he realized that Greg was grimly marching through his days, losing more sleep than he could afford while facing review boards and censure at New Scotland Yard over Sherlock’s – and John’s – involvement in past cases. He needed his space and to get a full night’s sleep. He denied it, of course, with guilt coloring his responses, but John knew.

Of course he knew.

John called his therapist, then Mrs. Hudson, and on a relatively sunny July day he moved back home to 221B Baker Street, for where else would home ever truly be?

After a sleepless night of staring up at the ceiling from the sofa, John answered the door to Mycroft, dressed in dark greys; a somewhat subtle mourning. Reluctantly, and with a deep breath, John allowed Mycroft entrance to the flat.

Mycroft seated himself easily in Sherlock’s favorite chair. John felt a headache spike in his right temple.

Mycroft skipped any niceties, not inquiring after John’s health or mental state at all, and diving right into his purpose.

“What fortunate timing for you that my brother left a will, drawn up a mere two months prior to his death. That he’d taken the time to draw one up at all is, I admit, a surprise. He never seemed to give much care to what might happen in the event of his death prior to you becoming a rather—significant—part of his life. I’m sure he expected I would step in to handle things, should he die during one of his more daring cases.”

John stood before him, arms crossed, glaring. “Your point?”

Mycroft smiled a tiny, pained smile. “Sherlock left his entire estate to you, John. All Sherlock owned here in 221B,” he waved his hand, indicating the room, “and a substantial bank account. His trust fund,” Mycroft explained, at John’s deepening frown. “He never touched it. Saving it for the day his brain stopped working, he once told me.”

“Well. That happened,” John said bitterly, congratulating himself on not chinning Mycroft Holmes where he sat. “Right there on the pavement outside St. Bart’s, no thanks to you. Stopped it dead.”

Mycroft had the grace to wince. “I’m well aware of the part I played in this dreadful situation. I can only say I’m sorry.” He pulled a long yellow envelope from his briefcase and handed it out to John.

John, however, was doing everything he could to hold onto his self-control until he was alone again. Reaching out would, this time, betray a truly shaking hand, and that was not a weakness he meant to display to Mycroft even at this late date.

_When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._

The battlefield had changed.

“Very well.” Mycroft rose and laid the papers on the table when John refused to take them from his hand, and then silently left. John drilled a resentful and angry look at Mycroft’s back until the door closed, and then he stood and listened until the umbrella taps against the steps ceased and the front door shut before he relaxed his stance and let his arms fall to his sides, hands still in clenched fists.

Tired, burning eyes looked around the silent flat, taking in the tall and slight, ghostly figure moving slides into the microscope. The violin played from its closed case on the floor. Sheet music fluttered as it lay flat and still on the stand, and a long black coat and blue scarf hung heavy on an empty hook. The skull spoke out loud of being more like Sherlock now. The empty kettle whistled its tortured song.

_Dead._

John sank to the floor, put his head in his hands, and rocked until his exhaustion took over and he crawled to, and this time slept, on the sofa.

He awoke several times, each with a ghost of a face or sound fading away from a distorted dream. The next morning, after a proper cup of tea and a very long, hot shower, John sat at the table and read his copy of Sherlock’s will.

Simply stated:

_I, Sherlock Holmes, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my life estate to Dr. John Watson, RAMC, 221B Baker Street, London.  The entirety of my holdings in Bank of England to be transferred to his own account to use as he desires. The entirety of my possessions housed at 221B Baker Street, London to be transferred into his name to do with as he chooses._

_My friend._ _More than a friend. Closer than a brother. I have every faith that John Watson will do right by it all, and it is solely into his hands that I deliver that which we shared and that which was mine, and state that no other entity shall lay any claim on it. He shall do with it as he wishes and let no one else deter him, though I would make the request that he keep my violin, for he enjoyed its music, and our friend the skull, for someone to talk to in my absence._

_Thank you, John. For everything._

_Sherlock Holmes_

More than a friend. Closer than a brother. John chuckled a bit, shaking his head. How exactly like Sherlock, to give only the tiniest glimpse into his heart. And blocking his true brother’s, Mycroft’s, possible wishes in the bargain.

He remembered then what Sherlock had said that difficult weekend near Baskerville. _“I meant what I said. I don’t have friends. I just have one.”_

He put his head down on the table and mourned.

*~*~*

After giving the matter due consideration, John decided he wasn’t willing to part with Sherlock’s possessions permanently. He arranged to have some boxed and taken to storage—the microscope, some of the crumbling books on the shelves—but he held a few particular items back in the flat.

And in the quiet weeks that followed, when the empty silence pressed in on him at times, and the violin case, music stand and skull proceeded to gather their eloquent dust, John still found it comfort enough to simply be at home. There was enough of Sherlock around to keep him alive in John’s heart, but not so much to bring on melancholy more than two or three times a month. He had been used to being alone before Sherlock, and for once, he understood what Sherlock might have meant by “alone protects me”.  Alone, no one pressed John to share his feelings, forcing him to feel the pain he tried so hard to bury. No one inquired after stories of Sherlock, or Sherlock-and-John, and John found solitary comfort in his unquestioned memories of grand mysteries solved and the tall, pale, misunderstood man who had solved them and then glowed in John’s praise of his mastery.

John’s blog lay dormant after his last post in June that stated flatly that he’d never believe Sherlock told him a lie. He ignored all new comment notifications and eventually, participation trickled to nothing. The Sherlock Holmes fanaticism faded away in favor of other intrusive sensations printed in the scandal-hungry papers.

At first the nights in his old room were as disturbed as they had been at Greg’s, but then one melancholy evening, John, with fists buried deeply in his pockets, stood in the doorway of Sherlock’s room.  

Nothing much had changed here. Thinking he’d possibly use it himself to save the drudgery of climbing the stairs every night, he’d kept this room as it had been. Same frames on the walls. Bed neatly made, one of Sherlock’s ironic concessions to his chaos elsewhere in the flat during his life there. He advanced into the room, feeling a bit as if he were trespassing. Sitting slowly, his hand stroking across a pillow, John found that the bed still smelled of Sherlock, even several weeks after its owner last lay. Familiar, warming, and John’s sudden tears against the pillowcase were brief. A comfort, and a release, where no one could see him, and where he fell asleep.

And it was that first night that John slept solidly, fully, without waking or even dreaming. Morning found him still in his jeans and shirt, sunlight brightening the room.

It was here that John finally felt he was home again. He could almost believe in an afterlife, feeling like Sherlock was near, in this small space that had been his alone. It beckoned John to join it permanently, to make the room…theirs.

And he accepted.

*~*~*

After three months away, John returned to clinic work on a warm September morning.  Once his sleep had improved greatly while in Sherlock’s bed, he itched to _do_ again, to help and to fix and to resolve and to _do_ , solving his own little medical mysteries using the observational skills Sherlock had taught him. He carried on and forward, the next step in his grieving process, and found a settling satisfaction in it. He found himself sharing his daily cases with the skull, which never challenged John’s decisions for his patients, but grinned madly at him regardless of the medical outcomes. And John found that often, a puzzling situation found a solution just by John having talked out loud about it. He settled into his new life, choosing cautious and limited contact with people from his shared past with Sherlock, though Greg held a solid status as ‘friend’.

Then a letter arrived.

Addressed only to “J”, at 221B Baker Street, London, John fairly assumed the “J” meant “John” and opened it. The handwriting was stilted and choppy, but readable.

_My friend Jonas,_

_I’m sorry I’ve not written before now, given how abruptly and without notice that I had to leave you, but my work has been difficult and requiring nearly all of my time. You are always on the edges of my thoughts, lurking as a silent partner in my quest, for though you are not here, your wisdom from the past stays with me still. I think of you more deeply whenever I have a quieter moment, such as now when I’m about to go to bed. It’s nearly three in the morning and I hope to get about four hours of sleep tonight, which will be the most I’ve had in a long while, but then I never was much for sleep when there was work to be done. It’s the best chance I have to write, and so while this must be brief, I hope it will ease this time for you, and you will forgive my lateness._

_I do not yet know how long this task will take, but I must complete it before I can see you again. I feel your loss keenly, sharply, and I presume you feel mine, but I know you. Practical to a fault, you will have carried on, soldier that you are. I think of you often, as I said, and I find myself examining thoughts I’d not taken the time to before, late at night, when I try to sleep and fail. I wish I could say them to you, hoping you will listen. I still hope to share them with you one day._

_Until then,_  
  
 _I. Holen_

John felt guilty, having opened and read a letter that clearly had not been for him, but he knew of no I. Holen. Perhaps Holen lived in the building across the street and the address was simply incorrect. There was no return address.

He’d have to ask Mrs. Hudson in the morning.

*~*~*

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I don’t recall a name like Holen living on Baker Street that I can recall, but then I spent many years in Florida. You might check with Mr. Chatterjee.”

“Nice old man named Hollinger, once. Died several years back.” Mr. Chatterjee didn’t know anything further than that.

So John put the letter back in its envelope and set the skull to guarding it on the mantelpiece. Perhaps the actual Jonas would come looking for it once the address mix-up had been realized.

A month later he’d nearly forgotten the letter. John led Greg Lestrade home from a pub after they had both worked all day and then took themselves out for a pint or four, celebrating Greg’s return to the force, under probation. Greg met him at the pub and matched him in drinking skill, and they both leaned drunkenly on each other in the cool November rain as they climbed the front steps to 221B and stumbled through the door.

The mail had been gathered by Mrs. Hudson and put on the entryway table; John didn’t bother with it until he spotted that funny handwriting again on one envelope. Even as he pushed and guided Greg up the seventeen steps to the flat, he snagged that letter from the pile to examine later, stuffing it into his shirt pocket.

An hour later, John had managed to make tea and warm up pasta leftovers, feed them both, and send Greg up the stairs to sleep it off in John’s old bed.  As John dragged himself to Sherlock’s—his—room to do the same, he remembered the letter.

He toed off his shoes and stripped down to his underclothes before succumbing to the promising call of soft pillows and blankets. The envelope slipped from his fingers to drop to his chest as he pulled the blankets over himself, and he took it up and read the address.

_J. Wattis_

_221B Baker Street, London_

Addressed with a last name this time. Interesting.

He warred with himself over reading the letter. It was not addressed to him. But it had been delivered to his address. Twice. Clearly, this I. Holen wanted his—or her?—words read. But by Jonas Wattis. Not John Watson.

He held the letter up to the light and through the envelope’s opacity could dimly see the odd words “pink case” amid the less legible ones. His memory took him immediately back to the very first case he and Sherlock had worked together, when John had stumbled badly over asking Sherlock about his private life, lost his limp as he chased a cab across London, and then shot a man to save Sherlock’s life. When Sherlock’s gaze fell on him from across yellow police tape while wrapped in a ridiculously orange shock blanket, with his hair fluffed around his face and his eyes lit up with not only red and blue swirling lights, but honest and surprised recognition, that’s when John knew. This man, this “Sherlock Holmes”, prime giggler at crime scenes and arrogant, impolite, and brilliant beyond belief, would give John back his life.

John dropped his wrist to his forehead, the envelope still pinched between his thumb and finger, exhaling heavily. Alcohol and exhaustion had wearied him and he squeezed his eyes shut as a nostalgic wave of loss crashed in.

 _Oh, what the hell. In for a penny._ And if Jonas Wattis ever came looking for his lost mail, well, John would cross that bridge if he came to it.

He opened the letter.

_Jonas, my friend,_

_Today it truly hit home how I have taken you for granted. I hope sometime in the future I will be able to tell you in person the things I need to tell you that come to mind in the few quiet moments I have._

_But today I had some time to rest. I sat at a table fairly well hidden beneath an umbrella and watched people go by. One woman pulled a screamingly pink case behind her, and the wheels spattered muddy water on my foot as she passed.  A cabbie stopped in front of the café and looked my way, as if looking for a certain fare, but eventually took someone who jumped into the back seat. I had tea and a biscuit but otherwise wasn’t hungry. Thought of you and your lovely tea-making skills and am now writing to you, to say thank you for those small things you did without knowing my gratitude, while I have the time to say so. So much you’ve done for me, and how little I said about them. And now we’re apart and I don’t know when I will see you again, if I live long enough to do so. I miss you greatly, and I never believed I’d ever miss anyone._

_I may fight alone, but I fight for you. I know it’s likely difficult to understand, and I’m quite sure you’re angry with me for what I’ve done. But I promise you, I will be there, right beside you again, if you’ll allow me, as soon as I can. I will explain, and I will answer all of the questions I know you will have for me._

_Cheers,_  
  
 _I. Holen_

John slowly and carefully folded the letter along its creases and put it back into the envelope, laying it on the bedside table. As he reached to the lamp to turn it off, his eyes burned. Damn light was simply too bright, hurt his eyes. Of course it wasn’t the seemingly parallel lives, the observations of tea and pink cases and cabbies and the goings about of life that pulled him backwards in time, to feel the pain of loss and regret after remembering the joy and excitement. The anger and the friendship.

The growing love.

Of course not.

*~*~*

“Do you remember that first case when Sherlock brought me along?” John asked, placing a plate of breakfast food in front of Greg.

“That was the – the pink lady case, and her pink case, yeah, and that cabbie with his poison pills. You know, I considered once that you could have been the one who killed that cabbie.”

John barely kept his mug from tipping over, forcing his hand to steady as he put his tea on the table. “Really? Why?”

Greg tilted his head and took a stab at his sausage. “Sherlock started to do his thing—you know, telling me all about what the shooter would be like, what his background would be, stuff like that. He was looking around, sort of as if he was trying to find someone there that fit his description, and then completely shut up, told me to ignore him. I didn’t think much of it at the time – you know how Sherlock was, confusing and irritating all at once. It wasn’t too unusual for him to just clam up, like he had more to think about. But later, after watching you two work together for a while, I got to thinking back at how he looked at you then.”

“Ha,” John replied with a weak grin, taking a bite of eggs. “And why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

Greg studied him thoughtfully for a moment, chewing, then shrugged. “Why would you do that for someone you hardly knew? And if you had, well. I had no evidence, anyway, and the killer was stopped, so I didn’t pursue it. So what made you think of that day?”

“Oh. Nostalgia, you know. Reading back over old blog entries,” he said, washing down the fib with tea.

“You going to start writing it again?”

John took a bite. Now that Lestrade had mentioned it… “Hm. Maybe. I’ll have to see what percolates.”  And maybe he could figure out this mysterious I. Holen and his letters.

And Jonas, to whom they belonged.

*~*~*

Once Lestrade left, John pulled out the two letters and gave them a hard look. No return address for either one. The stationery was different for both; postmarks were, too. European. French and Italian, and recent. Not a late postal delivery then, like the kind one reads about where love letters from World War Two finally make it into the hands of the soldier’s sweetheart—now wife—decades later, and after the soldier had died with twenty-seven grandchildren to carry on his name. The stilted handwriting was definitely the same, but the pen was different.

He found them quaint. Actual letters on actual paper. Not email, not a text. Nothing virtual about them at all. Real and solid, in his hands. He felt guilty and a bit ashamed that he’d read these letters, so clearly meant for someone else, but it also felt a little like a mystery meant for him to resolve.

He set Google to searching for other Baker Streets, other 221 addresses. Plenty of both, but none that seemed to match up with 221 Baker Street, much less a 221B. The address was clearly London and not County Londonderry in Ireland, or Londonderry in New Hampshire in the States. Irving also seemed to be sure that Jonas would be here to receive the letters. A search for Jonas Wattis turned up no matches but an offer for a pay site to search the name for him. He closed the window with a sigh.

His phone chimed; the clinic asking if he could come in early. He put the letters back in their envelopes and once again set them beneath the skull for safekeeping.

*~*~*

_November 16._

_Hello, everyone, if there’s anyone left still subscribed._

_It’s been five months exactly since Sherlock died. I’m trying to move on as best as I can. I’m still living in our flat, and don’t wish to leave it. For now, it’s comfort enough. I miss him, some days more than others, but it’s getting easier. Especially with no unexpectedly disgusting experiments appearing in the microwave. Ha._

_I’ve returned to my work as a doctor, solving my own little mysteries under the NHS. It satisfies me. No one glows green, at least._

_I doubt anyone will even read this. But it feels rather nice to write it. To be writing at all, once again._

A week later, a third letter arrived. A rush of anticipation thumped his heart as he scooped up his mail and headed upstairs. He didn’t even take off his coat nor consider if he should read it before he’d slit the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

_My friend Jonas,_

_No rest for the wicked, or so they say. I must be among the damned, for I’ve not had a significant peaceful moment in weeks. Always one step behind trying to be one step ahead. I run the plan from A to Z and still, something will go awry and I have to backtrack. In one way, it’s a blessing being alone, for it means I have only myself to worry about, but that’s never quite completely true, is it?_

_I’m writing this from a very tiny room in a very dirty boardinghouse on the edge of an even smaller town. The owner has rabbits in her garden, several collected in hutches. Oddly, it looks as though they’ve been spray-painted fluorescent green. I could guess I could see them in the moonlight, if it weren’t November and thus perpetually under clouds. The woman idiotically tells me it’s done to prevent theft. For want of tea I chose to hold my tongue on the irrationality of the practice, since if said green rabbits were stolen for food they’d be hidden away or skinned quite quickly, not paraded around town on a leash for all to recognize. I suspect one of their brethren made up tonight’s stew. You’ll be pleased to know that I at least had some bread with my tea, but the stew was more than I could contemplate. I’ll be gone before dawn, though, no sleep for me this night. I’m considering letting the rabbits out before I’m completely away, miserable lot that they are._

_If you were here – well, you’re not and that’s that. Please know I miss you at my side. More than I truly understood that I would._

_Yours,_

_I._

John cocked his head to one side as he finished the letter, amused by the rabbit story. It sounded like something Sherlock would have linked to the Baskerville case, with Kirstie’s missing rabbit later found at the research facility, taken by her mother who had performed the experiment in glowing green.

That night he dreamt of Sherlock. They were in the Baskerville facility, moving from room to room and shifting time as dreams frustratingly do. He could hear Sherlock calling his name from far away, but he couldn’t go to him, he had shut himself up in the cage. A glowing shadow grew closer, the hound, a rabbit, the hound, Sherlock.

Sherlock, pulling him from the security of the cage. Sherlock, pulling him into his arms as John shook and screamed in fear. Sherlock, kissing him to quiet him, and when their tongues touched it was right and good and the world grew warm and pink around him.  The scene changed, and John found himself outside the compound, Sherlock standing high on the crag overhead. He appeared to be searching for something but when his gaze fell on John below, he smiled and beckoned John to climb up.

The view showed him the whole of the world. He understood the vast universe. He felt the presence of so many spirits, buoyed by them, raised up by their love. God, perhaps. He turned to Sherlock in wonder and found him naked before him, holding John’s hand. Sherlock bent to kiss him and a star was born within his body, a new star. He became part of the universe, and the whole of his existence.  Then Sherlock stood on the edge of the rock, too close. John cried Sherlock’s name as had done from the ground outside St. Bart’s, reached for him, but Sherlock’s face became fixed, his sight on nothing at all. Blood poured down his face. In his mind, he could hear, “Goodbye, John,” and John tried to run toward his lover, tried to catch him but then his beautiful Sherlock stepped off the edge—

He woke with a gasp, his face pressed against a rumpled pillow, his body soaked in hot sweat. He rolled over and pushed the covers from his body to cool it, swallowing hard and realizing his throat felt raw. Screamed, he guessed. He lay still, catching his breath. No sound from downstairs nor any tentative tapping or “Yoo-hoo”-ing, so he must not have disturbed Mrs. Hudson.

The clock’s green numbers glowed 2:21. He gave a half-hearted chuckle at the coincidence. He rubbed at his face with both hands, grimacing at the drying, sticky sweat. Shower, then.

Shaky, he stepped into the cold spray, not bothering to wait for the hot water to arrive. The water woke him fully and as dreams often do, it began to fade.

Except one part. Sherlock had kissed him. Kissed him like a lover, with gentle lips and fingers threading through his hair. It had felt so real, so full of perfect love, and so very, very right.

He worked the soap between his hands and washed his face. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about kissing Sherlock. He’d thought about it since that very first night when Sherlock explained how he was ‘married to his work’. He’d imagined it, dreamed it, and subsequently buried it. Their lives were about that very work, about the problems solved and lives saved, of corruption aborted and murderers brought to justice.

But still, John had accepted that that was how Sherlock wanted it. He never pressed for more intimate information – had Sherlock ever had sex, with a woman or a man, did he masturbate, did he have any erotic thoughts at all?

He grinned, thinking of how he’d called Sally and Donovan out on their affair, “going by the state of her knees.” And then he bit his lip, realizing he’d never know the answers to his questions now; his friend was dead, and that was all there was to it. It really was never any of his business anyway.

Somberly, he toweled off and clambered back into Sherlock’s bed, wide awake. Funny how he still thought of it as Sherlock’s bed, after all these nights. His thoughts drifted from the dream to the letters. Rabbits and pink cases, hounds and cages. John felt a yawning emptiness inside him, as if a hook had grabbed his heart and pulled it down, down through his gut, leaving a gaping hole that wanted filling. He missed the adrenaline-fueled excitement of the chase. The inherent danger, and the final resolutions. He missed Sherlock’s affronted and disgusted looks when John would bring home another girlfriend, as if John were not allowed a relationship outside their own. Well, not ‘not allowed’, exactly, but that John would dare to _want_ a relationship outside their own.

In a way, John guessed, Sherlock effectively protected those women. Sherlock would always desire John at his side during a case, even if that meant pulling John from a date—and they both knew John would always come. Because John loved him, and loved the excitement and action that being Sherlock’s friend brought with it.

He sat up in the bed.

It was true. He had loved him. He cared for him enough that he took Mycroft’s summons to heart and searched the flat for syringes and drugs and other self-harm assists that Sherlock had been known for in his past, and watched Jeanette walk out on him over it. He loved him enough to accept Sherlock’s stilted and back-handed apologies at Baskerville for the experiment he’d done on John. He’d loved Sherlock enough to do exactly as asked, stand where he was told, and watch him jump to his death.

“Oh, God. Sherlock.”

He climbed out of bed and made his way to the closet. Most of Sherlock’s clothing had been removed to storage, but John had held back not just the violin and skull as requested, but Sherlock’s favorite dressing gown of blue silk. It was meant to live in this room, and John had kept it. Now, he put it on.

Sherlock’s long dressing gown nearly reached the floor, and in the dim light John could see himself in the mirror, resembling a small child dressed in an older brother’s clothing. He found comfort in it, though, as if wrapped in a swaddling blanket, secure and loved.

Wide awake now, he took the letters and himself to the kitchen and put the kettle on. As he waited to catch it before it whistled so early in the morning, he leaned against the worktop and thought.

I. Holen was writing to his friend Jonas, from whom he was separated.  He was not giving Jonas any specifics about where he was or what he was doing, but instead wrote of odd observations and how much he missed his friend. About a task he was completing, and how he hoped to reunite with Jonas and answer his questions. About how he knew Jonas must be angry and hurt by his leaving, and that he hoped he would be forgiven once his tale was told.

Jonas was a soldier – either now or had been. He had been working with Holen, and Holen had had to leave abruptly.

Holen clearly missed Jonas, said so in every letter. It seemed almost a plea, for Jonas to wait for him, to believe in him, to not stop loving him.

And the funny little stories, trying to include Jonas in his day. Pink cases and cabbies and green rabbits.

_Pink cases, cabbies and green rabbits?_

The kettle whistled and John, startled, grabbed for it before he woke the entire block.

 _No_ , John told himself, as he poured the water over the tea. _No, you are sleep deprived and making things up. It’s only a coincidence._

He moved to Sherlock’s chair, wrapped in Sherlock’s gown and drinking from Sherlock’s favorite mug, though John hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed it from the cupboard until he lifted it to his mouth.

He couldn’t stop his mind from making the comparisons, over and over. He leafed through the pages in his hand, noting the key words. The splashing of the muddy water from the wheels of a pink suitcase. A cabbie stopped, looking. A green rabbit.

Sudden anger rose inside of him, a hot cloud. Of course. Someone was playing with him, trying to drive him mad, making him think of Sherlock and their life together, now gone.

The reasonable answer would be Moriarty. He hadn’t been heard from since Sherlock’s death. This fact fed the public’s belief that Sherlock’s confession had been true and that he had indeed invented Moriarty, but John knew better, because he believed in Sherlock. He knew Sherlock better than anyone, and Sherlock did. Not. Do. This.

John imagined James Moriarty as Sherlock had once described him in court, a spider at the center of his web. Watching and waiting; pulling at various strands in a manner most effective to make others dance. Driving John Watson mad wouldn’t be beyond his idea of entertainment, not at all.  Destroying Sherlock has been his life’s goal; did Moriarty realize that doing so would also deal a significant blow to John’s?

Of course he did. He was a perfect match for Sherlock in intellect and cunning. But Sherlock lost. And Moriarty had vanished.

Doubt tried to gain a tentative foothold in John’s racing mind. He considered briefly that Sherlock had lied to him (not like he hadn’t lied to him before!) and that he had indeed been a dangerous psychopath intent on making a name for himself at the expense of others, only to take his own life once discovered. Making John watch him fall so he’d know Sherlock was telling the truth: he had invented Moriarty and made it all up.

But for one thing… “It’s a trick, just a magic trick…” That particular phrase, likely meant to indicate to anyone listening in on their phone conversation via a tap that Sherlock’s confession was true, had also been a niggling oddity stuck in John’s mind as being wrong somehow. As if it were a coded message.

He recalled the smarmy Sebastian at Shad Sanderson Bank. Even as he acknowledged Sherlock’s skill and ability to solve their break-in mystery, he couldn’t help but jab at the detective with past events of “doing that trick”, and Sherlock insisting once again that his observational skills were not a trick.

_Not a trick…_

_It’s a trick, just a magic trick…no one could be that clever._

_You could._

John could hear Sherlock’s voice in his mind when on the rare occasions when Sherlock hadn’t put together all the pieces until that moment, and berated himself now for the same. “Stupid, stupid!”

These letters. Putting all the coincidental remarks together, these letters could be from Sherlock, reaching out to John while staying hidden away. Reminding him of their cases, of what they’d done together.

But how? How? John had seen him, falling and then lying on the ground, no pulse, dead stare, and a gravestone with his name. Just recalling that stare made John close his own eyes in pain. Dead bodies would never be anything new to Dr. John Watson, but this body belonged to his friend. His best friend. The empty gaze meant an empty life, one John was limping along trying to recover from once more.

Then again, as John had told Sherlock moments before Sherlock died, that particular man could be that clever, and John now had to wonder—was this indeed Sherlock, writing to him? Or Moriarty, playing with John’s heart?

He glanced at his laptop. The blog.

He’d written about ‘no one glowing green’ and the next letter received referenced green glowing rabbits.

Well, then.

_November 23_

_A few days ago a mother brought in her young son worried because he had odd yellow streaks on his arms and legs. Soap and water didn’t seem to do much with it and she didn’t know what it was exactly or how to get it off, either. S, her son, had been mum on the cause, probably afraid of a punishment._

_Upon closer examination, whereby I had to duck being kicked by an uncooperative child, the yellow streaks appeared to be spray paint. Reluctantly, S finally explained to us that a friend had found the can in the street and wanted to play with it further, and thought S turning yellow would be good fun and had attempted to draw pictures with it on his S’s skin. Perhaps that’s better than putting graffiti on public buildings, for one can get an ASBO for that. Ask me how I know. Actually, on second thought – don’t._

_I told S that he was darned lucky the paint hadn’t been sprayed across his face and into his eyes, and advised his mother to invest in some petroleum jelly to dissolve the paint from his skin._

_Such is the life of a clinic doctor._

*~*~*

_November 28_

_My friend Jonas,_

_I am cold. My fingers are stiff but I am determined to write to you, for my mind is racing and putting words down on paper may help ease the crush of information so that I may sort out and read the situation more clearly._

_The work continues, but I am, happily, much closer to my goal. One by one the pillars that blocked my view are falling, revealing the bigger picture though the face behind it all is still occluded. Still, I have my suspicions, impossible though they may seem._

_I think of you daily. I don’t know that I have ever shared dreams I’ve had with you, but I will tell you now, my dreams are vivid and you figure in them. It must be my missing you; my mind wants to keep you close._

_As ever yours,_

_I._

John nearly crumpled the envelope within his fist in his excitement. The pillars, the picture, the face hidden. The writer had read John’s blog post. All referencing the yellow paint on the portrait, visible only through a certain layout of the bank’s pillars from one man’s desk. The knowledge that a threat had been posed to that man, and deduced by one singular, spectacularly brilliant detective.

 _SHERLOCK_.

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s grand chair, his heart pounding in his chest and ears. Alive.

Sherlock was ALIVE.

Right? Or was John Watson being played?

Emotions chased themselves around his head and down his spine. His thoughts swung wildly from cold anger to heartfelt joy to fearful worry.

Standing, he moved to the window to watch the traffic below, casting hopeful glances along the pavement for a tall, pale figure in a long black coat. He’d need to play the game until “I. Holen” revealed himself in person as S. Holmes.

With a nod, he returned to Sherlock’s chair and took up his laptop.

*~*~*

_December 1_

_The shops don’t wait long to start playing holiday music, do they? Only the first of December and already I’m hearing the tinkling of Christmas bells and bits and pieces of carols. I listened carefully today, hoping to hear “Coventry Carol”. For our last Christmas together, Sherlock, not known for giving gifts anyway, learnt the tune on his violin and played it for me. It’s a cherished memory now, and I know that when I do hear it, I will have to stop and listen and remember, for my holiday dreams._

_Unfortunately, I’ve had nightmares since he’s been gone; one in particular was about being the only person left alive on a plane of the dead. I’m no dream analyst, but I’m wondering if subconsciously I feel as if I should have died with him, flying with the other dead to the ‘other side’?  That’s really morbid, and I’m sorry for it, but it’s the one dream that hasn’t faded away upon waking. Recalling it out of the blue can be irritating at times, and often I’ll look up at the sky when a plane flies overhead, reminding me yet again. Anyone care to venture a guess on its meaning? Have any of you had odd dreams after someone you cared about passed away?_

John began to obsessively check the mail table upon arriving or leaving the flat, even though the post couldn’t possibly deliver a letter so soon, even if it were posted from London itself. Several things still puzzled him. The handwriting was not Sherlock’s; whose was it, then? Why was Holen traveling all over Europe—who was he chasing down? Or who was chasing Sherlock—Holen?

Sleep began to elude him. Once a source of comfort and long hours of rest, Sherlock’s bed became a place for John’s mind to race, spinning one theory out after another, and anxious at the lack of furthering clues to prove or disprove those very theories. He would sleep with the laptop next to him, an ersatz bedmate with a soft glow.  He dozed off for short, unsatisfying naps after refreshing his latest blog post in the hopes of catching a new comment before a notification of such could reach his email.

A handful of followers offered up their own interpretations of his ‘dream’, ranging from “You feel your life has no purpose now and you are dead inside” to “Sometimes dreams mean nothing at all” to “I agree with your own assessment.” None seemed to offer any clues that would lead him to believe any of the commenters were Sherlock. Not the way the letter writer did, at any rate.

“Right,” John said to himself on the third day, and snapped the laptop cover shut. Back to work today; double shift to cover for another doctor on holiday, and a pasta casserole ready in the fridge for popping in the oven when he arrived home.

The day managed to be busy enough for him to set aside his thoughts and focus on the patients at hand. Lunch was brief; Sarah brought him a ham sandwich and he ate it while standing over a sink, washing it down with a lukewarm soft drink and returned to his patients within ten minutes. He comforted himself with the thought of the pasta; he wondered if he could snatch two minutes to phone Mrs. Hudson and ask her to put it in the oven for him before he got home.

As it happened, he sent one middle-aged man off to the loo to leave a urine sample and took the moment to call; there was half an hour left in clinic hours and he would stop for bread on the way home.

Mrs. Hudson’s line rang five times before she picked up, and John had nearly disconnected when he heard her answer breathlessly.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you all right?” he asked, concerned.

“Oh, John. There was a strange man just now; he wanted to see you. I told him you weren’t home and tried to have him leave a message, but he was very rude to me and slammed the door on the way out. I was just checking to be sure your door was locked, in case he tried to come back in, when you rang. He’s still outside, sitting at one of the tables outside of the deli!”

“All right, Mrs. Hudson. What does he look like? I’ll be right home.”

“Oh, dear, don’t worry, I’m locking the main door as well.”  Her voice was quavering, and John had a sudden recollection of the men who had handled her so roughly that Sherlock had held no compunctions against defenestrating the American onto Mrs. Hudson’s bins.

John huffed out a breath. A strange man, on top of this Holen/Wattis mystery.

Mrs. Hudson would recognize Sherlock, he was sure of it, if it were him in disguise. Unless there really were an I. Holen or a J. Wattis. Perhaps he’s one of them.

He didn’t want to contemplate that Holen and Wattis could be real people. He wanted Holen to be Holmes, desperately.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m going to ring off and call Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him check this fellow out. You keep the doors locked and your phone nearby. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Okay?”

“All right, dear. Oh, I did gather the mail; that’s how the nasty man got in, followed me when I came back up. There’s some for you on the table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be there soon.” He turned to find his patient standing there, holding a cup of yellow urine in his hand.

“Ta, Mr. Withycombe. I—ah—one moment, please.”

John ducked out of the exam room, looking for and finding Sarah stacking up her charts. “Sarah, I’m so sorry, would you see to Mr. Withycombe? I’ve got to run; there’s a problem at home.”

Sarah looked past John to Exam Three, where a bewildered Withycombe stood in the doorway, the cup still in his hand. “Uh…sure. What’s wrong?”

John shook his head. “Hopefully nothing, but there’s a strange man bullying Mrs. Hudson a bit and he may be someone actually looking for me. I owe you one—thank you.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek, which she protested mildly before smiling and waving him off even as he was already half out of his lab coat and out the door, punching in Lestrade’s number as he went.

*~*~*

Greg picked him at the Tube station. “So, is this someone you know?”

“I don’t think so. But he may be looking for me. I’ve been getting some odd mail that I thought was for me, but now I’m not so sure. Or, rather, I never was, but…”

“Wait, what? You’re not making any sense. You’ve been opening mail that’s not yours?”

John glanced sideways at Greg. “Well, at first I thought so. But now I’m thinking—these letters may actually be for me.”

Greg shook his head. “Still confused. Explain.”

And John did, telling him about J. Wattis and I. Holen, the letters and the blog posts.

“So, you’re thinking Sherlock is actually still alive?” Greg asked, his eyes wide as he parked the car on Baker Street.

John nodded. “Or someone’s playing me very well. The handwriting is wrong—I’ll show you. But everything the letters say feel like a coded message for me, from Sherlock.”

As they exited the car and strode toward 221B, John spotted a large, rough-looking character in a denim jacket leaning against the building near the steps. As they approached, he pushed himself off the wall and blocked the steps.

“You Wattis? Or Watson?” the man asked. John put a lightly restraining hand on Lestrade’s arm when the D.I. reached for his badge.

“Who’s asking?” John replied, calmly.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I have a message for you.”

“For whom? Wattis or Watson?”

The man glanced at Lestrade, and then leaned menacingly close to John, muttering, “He couldn’t mail again. Sent me instead.”

Lestrade took a step forward to defend John by grabbing the man by the arm, but John waved off the cuffs. Deli customers began to watch the scuffling. “Let’s just go inside,” John murmured to Greg, who pushed the man ahead of him and through the front door to the vestibule.

“What’s your name?” John asked, after reassuring a worried Mrs. Hudson back into her own flat.

“Doesn’t matter. But I’m to tell you that I. Holen sent me.”

John named him “Brute” in his mind. “Why?”

Brute glanced at Lestrade, then back to John, his gaze intense, as if he were trying to send a telepathic message.

 Ah. Message only for John. “Detective Inspector, let him go. It’s all right.”

Brute started briefly at Lestrade’s title. “You’re _that_ Lestrade?” he asked, before bursting out laughing. “Sorry excuse for a cop you are.”

John stepped between them as Greg’s face grew purple. “Detective Inspector, could you wait outside for me, please? It’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Greg’s gaze was still locked on Brute.

John nodded, jerking his head toward the door. Reluctantly, Greg left, and John waited until he closed the door firmly behind him. “All right. Out with it. Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Here.” Brute pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. “I was told to hand deliver this to you and not let anyone stop me. It wasn’t safe to use the mail.”

John took the letter carefully, as if it might blow up like a bomb. Addressed to J. Wattis, in the now-familiar handwriting. He looked back up at Brute. “Do you know this man, the person who wrote this?”

Brute gave him a hard stare before muttering, “I have to go. Oh—one odd thing he asked me to say.” He shook his head. “Sounds like a poofter to me, but he said to tell you ‘Aubergine Buttons’.”

John jerked, ready to drop, jump, or flee, but the man simply turned and yanked the door open.

“Wait!” John cried out, running out the door after him. “Will you back with more? Any other message?”

Brute looked John up and down with a cold, sneering look. “No.” And he was gone, pushing past Lestrade, who stood with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

“All right, John?” he asked, coming closer.

John examined the envelope. No return address, no postage. Hand-delivered because the Royal Mail was apparently too dangerous to use.

“John?”

“I’m fine. But come inside.” He held up the envelope. “This is another letter from that same person.”

*~*~*

John shrugged out of his jacket as he disappeared into the bedroom, dropping it on the bed as he reached for the letters lying on the end table. He compared the envelopes as he walked out to the sitting room where Lestrade stood with his hands in his pockets, looking completely confused.

John beckoned Lestrade to the sofa and together they sat, John holding his precious envelopes like jewels. He outlined the comparisons between his blog posts and the letters received, the common threads, the perceived acknowledgement of deliberate clues laid down.

“And this one?” Greg asked, placing a finger on the new, unopened letter.

“Let’s find out.” John slid the flap open, and pulled out the letter. “See? Same handwriting, but it’s not Sherlock’s.”  He began by reading out loud, chuckling at the second sentence’s coincidence, but trailing off into silence after that.

_Dear Jonas,_

_Forgive the strangeness with which I’m sure this letter arrived. The man bringing it to you is something of a brute, but he’s one who doesn’t shirk on a duty he’s given, so I am assured you will receive this, sealed and intact._

_He will have also given you a set of words you will recognize. Carry them in your heart and in your mind—watch yourself. I am closing in on the last strand of the web; it won’t be long now, but cornered beasts often strike with one last burst of energy before they succumb. But he will succumb, I swear to you, my friend._

_I am weary and lonely. I feel as if I’ve fallen from a great height and became lost from view by anyone who cared for me. The solitude I once sought safety in I now loathe. I don’t wish to be alone any more. I’ve never been afraid of dying, but this plane of existence may well be what death feels like. No one to talk with, no one to play for, no one to nag me._

_It’s made me realize I’ve missed your gentle illumination in my life. Right now it’s dark and cold and I long to sit by the fire with a teacup in hand and speak with you about all manner of things—the arc of the Milky Way over the course of a winter’s night; the delicacy of frost growing on a window pane. I long to hold what is precious to me in my hands again; I trust you’ve kept that carefully for me. I’ve no one to share these thoughts with here, and it’s in these times I think of how much I treasured your presence, your care, and your willing ear; how much I relied on you before I truly realized just how much I did._

_Christmas is coming, my friend. Once, I gave you a gift of my talent. This year, I hope to gift you with more of myself. I hope you will forgive my sentimentality, but I am weary. So very weary. Rest is not something I valued in the past, but I am sorely in need of it now, along with your strength and care._

_Soon, Jonas._ _Soon._

_Your friend,_

_I. Holen_

Lestrade shifted on the sofa when John shook his head as he finished reading. “Bad news?”

“Uh—no. Not really. Just—he’s warning me in this one. And I’m positive it’s Sherlock now.”

Lestrade leaned closer. “How so?”

John turned on the lamp; the room, much as Sherlock said in his letter, was dark and cold and needed more light. “Sherlock and I had set up code words to notify each other of imminent danger without tipping off whomever we might be near. We used one set of words back in Irene Adler’s house when Sherlock was being forced to open the safe; Irene had sent some silent message to Sherlock about the danger and he said the code words to me, giving me time to duck and move before he opened the safe’s door. It worked; the booby trap gun inside the safe shot the CIA man instead of me, and I was right in its line of fire. However, since others heard him say the code, we established new words. The fellow who delivered this letter said those specific words to me. No one else would know what they meant.”

“What were they?” Lestrade asked.

John shook his head. “Can’t tell you. But if I tell you to duck, duck. OK?”

Lestrade leveled an assessing look at John. “Why else do you think it’s him?”

John pointed at the individual lines in the letter. “In my blog post, I made reference to the Coventry carol, and dreams of a plane full of dead people. He mentions a plane of existence that feels like death, his violin, and the gift of music he gave me one Christmas. But what concerns me the most here is that he says he’s about to finish this mission, yet he intimates that he is ill and weakening.”

Lestrade stared at him a moment. “You got all that from—“ He touched each envelope, counting. “Five letters?”

John shrugged. “I lived with the world’s only consulting detective. I watched, listened, learned. Some of his skill rubbed off on me.” He smiled. “I just hope I’m right.”

“So, what now?”

“We wait. Clearly something has been compromised if he can’t trust the Royal Mail.”  
  
“You want me to poke a bit at New Scotland Yard, see if there’s anything happening that might point to where he is?”

John shook his head. “No, no, that might be the worst thing. If whoever Sherlock’s after has feelers himself within NSY, having you do a poke might heighten the danger.”

Lestrade nodded reluctantly. “Sherlock alive. I’m still not sure that I can believe it, but you’re probably right about nosing around, if he is. Look, I’d better go. You keep in contact with me, and don’t go rushing off on your own, risking your neck too.” He wagged his finger for emphasis, but John reached up and took Greg’s hand, shaking it.

“Thank you, Greg.”

“For what?”

“For being willing to listen to me on this, to believe. I know you cared about him, too.”

“I care about you, as well, you know.”

John smiled. “It’s good to have friends that have your back.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope Sherlock realizes that, eh?”

After Lestrade left, John lay back on the sofa, unconsciously adopting his own form of Sherlock’s thinking pose, fingers of both hands laced together, one knuckle bouncing off his chin. His gaze slid to the absurd yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wallpaper, and the bullet holes that formed its structure. “Bored. Bored!” Sherlock had cried, and John recalled feeling absurdly grateful the bullets hadn’t pierced any plumbing or people. Keeping Sherlock occupied without a case had proven a full-time job in itself, and now Sherlock was out there—alive—and alone. He wanted to go to him, to help, but he still had no idea where the man was hiding.

Oh, he hated this. His thoughts tumbled one after the other, emotions chasing themselves around in his head and his heart. Worry for Sherlock’s safety—and sanity. Anger at having been duped by The Great Detective once again. Joy at finding him alive after all. Impatience at being forced to wait for the next message. Amusement at being told “aubergine buttons” and recalling the conversation that led to those words.

 _John, bringing the laundry from the rack._ _Sorting through it, separating his own from Sherlock’s. “Here’s your purple shirt,” he said, holding it out by the tails, the sleeves dangling loose._

_“Aubergine,” Sherlock sniffed, ignoring the proffered shirt, presumably waiting until John had sorted it all, as usual._

_“What?”_

_“Aubergine,” Sherlock huffed impatiently. “That’s the color. Not purple.”_

_John looked down at the shirt in his hand. “Whichever. As long as you look good, right?”_

_“Of course,” Sherlock murmured, turning the page of the newspaper. “I always look good.”_

_“Especially in this shirt.”_ _John said it quietly. “Suits you best.”_

_Sherlock colored a bit at the compliment. He glanced at John briefly, blinked, and returned to the paper. “Check the buttons, would you? That shirt can be rather tight at times.”_

_Bastard._ _Of course he’d noticed John’s gaze on those days. “Yes. Those straining buttons. Could be dangerous.”_

_Sherlock’s mouth turned up one corner in a small grin. “Then there’s our new code. ‘Aubergine buttons.’ We’ll know to duck.”_

_*~*~*_

_December 5,_

_One thing about blogging and having something of an internet presence is that old friends come wriggling out of the woodwork. One such contacted me privately the other day because he’d found this blog. It has been so long since I’ve seen him, I thought perhaps he’d met some terrible fate, but it turns out, he’d simply been out of the country and working very hard. I’m glad to hear from him and hope to see him soon. A Christmas gift of sorts, after a rather difficult year. I’m anxious to hear the tales he may have to tell._

*~*~*

A morning phone call from an unknown number began the step in John’s adventure.

“It’s done. Please come at once. Skye. Someone will meet your train in Kyle. Don’t tell anyone where or why you’re going.”

John’s legs felt weak. A voice John knew so intimately that its hoarseness even over the phone couldn’t disguise the distinctive timbre and cadence. _Sherlock_. Shaking, he sat down in his chair, swallowing hard.  “Oh, my God. Are you all right? Sherlock?”

“I’m well enough for now. More when you get here, now go.” And with that, Sherlock rang off.

With trembling hands John emailed the clinic and then consulted his laptop for train schedules and booking, first from London to Inverness, then to Kyle, he worried for Sherlock. He hadn’t sounded well at all; hoarse, weakened. Once booked, John packed a duffle with a few days’ change of clothing and toiletries, Sherlock’s dressing gown, and his medical bag, fully stocked up.

He knocked at Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Oh, John. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, I’m going to get out of town for a bit. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh, John. I’m sure this month must be hard for you without Sherlock, and Christmas coming. Going somewhere warm, I hope?” she said, rubbing at her arms.

“Ah, no, afraid not, but that would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Outside, he heard a cab’s horn, calling for him. “That’s my cab—I’ll let Detective Inspector Lestrade know I’m leaving. You should be able to call him if anything disturbs you, all right?”

“All right, dear. Do you know when you’ll be back?”

He shook his head. “No, I really don’t. But I’ll try to bring you back a Christmas present.”

He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and she giggled. “Oh, you. Off you go. Have a good time.”

The cab ride was quick and quiet, but the train travel would take a day. Almost before he fully realized the journey he was taking, he was bound for Scotland and Inverness, to change trains there to Kyle and then a car to Skye to find a dead man who was not dead at all.

The train rocked gently. The landscape slowed its pace from buildings rushing past to nature taking its time, slowed beneath the weight of a grey December sky. The shorter day would end in darkness soon. The train from Inverness would arrive late in the evening and if all went as it should, he’d be with Sherlock shortly thereafter.

The stirrings of upset at having been duped into believing his best friend had committed suicide before his eyes rose again, but he pushed them back behind his doctor’s concern for Sherlock’s health. He would allow himself to be angry later; first he needed to be sure Sherlock wasn’t dying (again) before he laid into him with all the righteous John Watson fury the ‘dead’ man deserved.

The train passed through a town as the night settled in, and fairy lights lit several houses along the way. He thought of Coventry carol, humming it to himself as his eyes drifted shut, remembering Sherlock’s violin.

_That woe is me_  
 _Poor child for thee!_  
 _And ever morn and day,_  
 _For thy parting_  
 _Neither say nor sing_  
 _By by, lully lullay!_

He awoke to the train slowing, and then stopping, in Inverness. A change of trains and he was off again, riding into the night to Kyle. Anticipation and adrenaline prevented any further sleep, and he contemplated the darkness outside. He imagined what their first meeting might be like but all he could see was Sherlock stepping off Bart’s rooftop, the silence of his broken body, the blood pooling around him.

Yet he was alive. But how? _HOW?_ He saw him fall, the evidence of his own eyes…

_“No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I’ve not really experienced before ...”_

_“Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.”_

_“No, no, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.”_

_“You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster.”_

_“No, I can’t believe that. But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?”_  
  
 _“Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you’ve got something to go on, then? Good luck with that.”_  
  
 _“Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.”_

John swallowed hard. _It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick._

I’m on my way, Sherlock, he thought. Don’t be scared.

Time slowed more the closer he got, and his stomach clenched. He’d not been hungry; the coffee he’d bought from the snack trolley burned in his gut.

He disembarked at Kyle, and his phone buzzed with a text. _Familiar ‘friend’ waiting outside on the kerb._

He stepped outside to find the Brute, sneering at him. “Get in,” he said gruffly, holding the door open, and John slid inside with his duffel, narrowly escaping the slam behind him.

Brute drove quickly, saying nothing. Before long John found himself in front of a small house. One window glowed with a light, but nothing appeared to move inside. Brute parked and got out, opening John’s door like a chauffeur, then leading him to the front door of the house. He rapped three times, then unlocked the door and ushered John in.

A small electric heater glowed on the floor. A single small lamp lit the area near a sofa bed, pulled out and draped in blankets. As John drew closer, the blankets shifted, and a pair of pale blue eyes blinked up at him.

His hair was cut very short, nearly to his scalp. A small, aging scar cut across his lip. In the low light, he appeared pale, with hollowed eyes.

“John.”

Sherlock’s hand crept out, trembling, and John dropped his duffle and took it between both of his, rubbing gently as if to warm it, an unconscious doctorly action.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

“Yes.” His voice was breathy, thin. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Why are you ill? What’s wrong?” John let go Sherlock’s hand and pulled his jacket off. “How long has he been like this?” he asked the Brute.

Brute shrugged. “I dunno. I’m just paid to do as he asks. He tells me to do as you say, too, so tell me if you want something.”

John turned to Sherlock. “How long?”

“Since the boarding house with the rabbits. Someone was trying to stop me by putting something in my food. Arsenic, likely. Since I don’t eat much, I recognized the symptoms early on and escaped.”

John climbed onto the bed and sat, pulling Sherlock closer and checking his pulse. “My bag. Lift it up here, please,” he directed Brute. Sherlock moved his head to rest against John’s thigh, and John pressed his palm to Sherlock’s forehead to check for fever. “What symptoms?”

“Headaches. Mild confusion. Diarrhea.”

“This doesn’t look like arsenic poisoning now—what else?”

Sherlock turned his head to press his face further against John’s thigh. “Flu. I was already slowed by the arsenic and then ended up in a house full of sick children. Simple flu.”

“Your other symptoms are gone?”

Sherlock nodded. “Except for the headaches, but that’s likely the flu, too.”

Brute dropped the heavy duffel on the bed. “Thank you. Now, water, please, and a cloth if you have one.” Brute gave him a disgusted look and stomped off to where John presumed the kitchen lay.

“Where in the world did you pick this cheerful person up?”

“Underground network. He’s been shadowing me since I…”

“Since you jumped and left me thinking you dead. No, no, no, you’re not going anywhere,” he said, as Sherlock tried to roll away. “We’ll discuss all that later. We’ll probably discuss it loudly, at that, for I have a lot to say to you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock relaxed against him again, nodding once. John dug into his bag and pulled out Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Thought you might like this,” he said, pulling back the blankets and draping the gown over Sherlock’s huddled form. Sherlock smiled as his hand stroked the familiar fabric. John then pulled out his medical bag and found a thermometer, sliding it between Sherlock’s lips. Brute returned with a glass of water and a dubious dishcloth, setting both on the small table holding the lamp.

“Thank you. Wait in the other room now, please. I’ll call you if and when I need you.”

“Bossy little ponce, aren’t you?” Brute sneered.

“Brutus. Go.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, but firm around the thermometer.

With an eyeroll, Brutus left them alone.

“His name is actually Brutus? Of course it is.”

Sherlock shrugged slightly and nodded. The thermometer beeped. John pulled it and checked it in the light. “Definitely a fever, but not too terrible. Can you tell me if you hurt anywhere?”

Sherlock didn’t answer verbally, but he shifted again so that John’s arm came naturally down around his shoulders. Sherlock pushed up a little higher until his head rested against John’s chest.

“You must feel terrible, to be this…cuddly.” John picked up the glass of water and pressed it to Sherlock’s lips. “You need to hydrate. Drink some down for me, please.” When Sherlock had his fill, John poured some of the water onto the cloth and wiped Sherlock’s face with it. Sherlock began to shiver, trembling against John’s body.

“Tired. I’m so tired, John.”

“Sleep.” When Sherlock plucked at John’s sleeve, he leaned his head closer to Sherlock’s. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. Sleep.” He began to hum the Coventry lullaby carol and Sherlock gave a faint chuckle. In a short few minutes, Sherlock fell asleep, the grasp he had on John’s sleeve slackening.

John looked around the room. Spare. Someone’s holiday home, perhaps. No telephone in sight, simple curtains over the windows. A ratty chair sat in the corner, a lone blanket draped over its back. The air seemed stale and Sherlock grew warmer against John, warming him as well.

He looked down at this slumbering friend. He ran his fingertips over the short-cropped hair, and wondered why the lush curls had been sacrificed. He traced the lip scar with the tip of his pinky finger, and wondered how. He took in the gauntness of Sherlock’s face, lined with the remnants of arsenic poisoning and flu, and wondered who. Who was responsible for all this? Why had Sherlock faked his death and disappeared? Clearly he’d been through a lot; even an ill Sherlock was not typically a needy Sherlock. Grumpy, yes. Clingy? Never had he seen Sherlock clingy like this unless he was acting a role for a case.

Who else knew what Sherlock had done? He thought back to the day Sherlock fell, the crowd that gathered and has swept Sherlock onto a stretcher and away from a desperate John, held back firmly until Sherlock has disappeared inside Bart’s.

Bart’s. Who were all those people, and where did they come from? Did Mike Stamford know about this? Molly?

Molly Hooper. She’d come to the funeral and had looked desperately worried, but never shed a tear that John had seen. True, he had been a bit distracted himself at the time, tight in the grip of incipient grief and trying to avoid the most insistent of the funeral’s attendees. Molly had approached in her shy way, squeezed his arm and gave him a weak smile, then left without a word.

Molly. She who knew intimately what a dead person looked like, especially after a trauma such as throwing one’s self off a rooftop.

Molly, who would have been inside, waiting to receive Sherlock’s body.

“Molly.”

Sherlock stirred. “Yes, Molly knew. She helped me, at my request.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“You started talking.”

John chuckled. “Thinking out loud. I intend to have a long talk with Miss Hooper when we get home. And you have a lot to explain, Mr. Holmes.”

“And I will share it all with you, Dr. Watson. But not yet.”

John slid down the bed, shifting Sherlock in his arms until their heads shared the pillow. “I’m angry with you, you know.”

“I know. I am sorry for upsetting you, John, and I regret the suffering you’ve endured. But I do not regret the actions I took.”

“You made me watch you fall to your death,” John murmured.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I saved your life.”

“You saved my life?”

“Yes. You’ll have to trust me on that for now, John. I haven’t the energy to explain, yet. It’s quite a long and detailed story.”

“All right.” John tipped his head closer, risking the flu himself. He swallowed, and then pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. A small smile edged onto Sherlock’s face.

“Shall I tell you a secret, John?”

“If you feel up to it. Don’t strain yourself on my account.”

Sherlock drew a deep breath. “I missed you terribly. More than I thought I would, and more than I thought I even could. I’ve always kept other people at arm’s length, but you walked right past that limitation without my even noticing it and became woven into the fabric of my life. While I’ve been gone, when I slept, you’d come to me, staring up at me from the roadway outside Bart’s, waiting for me to fall. Nightmares. I’d wake and not be in Baker Street. You were not there, making me tea. My violin was lost to me. It was unbearable, John.”

For his entire speech, Sherlock had kept his eyes closed. Now he opened them, a worried look shadowing them.

John sighed deeply. “Listen. For me, you were dead, Sherlock. I grieved for you. I-I cried for you. I need some time to absorb all this.”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth turned down. “I cried once for you, as well. It was when I realized after a nightmare that what I was feeling was not simple loneliness. It complicated itself with love.”

John closed his eyes, fighting down the emotion rising within him. “Love?”

Sherlock smiled and slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulling his dressing gown on as he did. John followed him up, turning to face him, his gaze running over Sherlock’s body, now wrapped in familiar cloth. He reached out to tug on the collar, as if to straighten it.

“Is this the fever talking?”

Sherlock laughed softly. “No, though I will say my inhibitions have been severely lowered, so treasure this moment.”

John smiled. “You love me.”

Sherlock nodded.

“As a friend?”

“More than that.”

“What about being married to your work?”

“You’ve become a significant part of that work, John.”

John blinked hard, then bent his neck and turned his head away. He hoped to God this wasn’t another dream.

“John? There’s no rush. I expect you’ll need time to think about what I’ve said, and what you wish to do about it.”

“Nope. No, I read your letters, and I gathered you’d come to care, once I sorted out it was you. Clever letters, Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

John raised his head again. “I. Holen? In other words, ‘I, Holmes? And Jonas Wattis for John Watson.”

“Very good.”

“But…the handwriting wasn’t yours.”

“Actually, it was. I wrote with my left hand, to disguise it. You are left-handed, and that spurred the idea.”

John blew out a careful breath and raised his hand to brush his fingertips across Sherlock’s flushed cheek. “You really were thinking of me, all this time?”

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and turning his head into the touch. “I did all of this for you.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“I love you, too.”

Sherlock’s mouth quivered, just a touch, but his eyes remained closed. John smiled. “Sentiment.”

“Apparently so.”

John leaned closer, his gaze directed toward Sherlock’s lips. “I’m going to kiss you, even though you’re ill.”

“Poofters. I knew it.” Brutus stood in the doorway to the next room, arms crossed and a disgusted look on his face.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He and John looked at each other and smiled. Together, they said, “Aubergine buttons!” and ducked beneath the blankets.

In the dark, warm security of the bedclothes and Sherlock’s arms, John followed through with his promise, gently tasting Sherlock’s mouth for the first time. “More of that when you’re better,” he said after a few moments, running a palm over Sherlock’s hair.  “Are you going to tell me why your lovely curls are gone?”

Sherlock sighed. “I expect so. Now, please kiss me once more, and then we sleep.”

_~end_

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Alex for her beta and never-ending support.
> 
> Original dialogue from the series via the incredible [Ariane_DeVere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariane_DeVere/pseuds/Ariane_DeVere), who has faithfully [transcribed every _Sherlock_ episode](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), making it simple to be sure of my quotes.
> 
> Originally published in the Con*Strict conzine, July 2013.


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